WHERE IS THE MAN YOU RESPECT, AND WHERE IS THE WOMAN YOU LOVE?
Watching Mr. Joe Cellunaire talk on his telephone, in his light leather jacket and burgundy sweater, jeans and one of those concoctions that currently passes for sneakers but looks more like an old couch with laces, I realized that if you follow contemporary mainstream men’s fashions, you have two options. Either be this guy, and look like a dick, or be the other guy with baggy pants and backwards baseball cap, and look like a lazy dick. No wonder all guys are dicks. That’s what they’re sold in the catalogue. At least chicks have Delia’s. [side note: on the way home, I passed a dude in an “I *heart* Robots” shirt. Is it any wonder girls weren’t trailing behind him like he was the Pied Piper of Hot Buttered Sex?]
So, I devised a new trick to beat the home distractions of e-mail and clutternet. I unplug my modem. It’s in a different room than my computer, thanks to poor design. The cable jack is really inconvenient (the phone is worse, it’s in the kitchen). This makes the stupid impulse to log on contend with the walk to the modem, and the distance is my friend. This allows me to work at home rather than elsewhere (where I am now), which has the benefit of allowing me more music selections and space to wander. I like to walk around when I write. It works better for me than trying to think at my desk, and also helps the legs not to go numb.
Only problem is, I think on an average day this new trick will only work if I am writing at night. If I am hoping to wake up and get to work straight away, it’s not as easy. I think it tends to be a problem of the gray days here in Portland, and the added effects of not really leaving the house. I’m not going to fully come to consciousness unless I get out and moving. I have the same problem if I try to watch a movie on Saturday morning. I will likely fall asleep at least once, and no amount of coffee is going to do it. I had two cups at home (did I turn the pot off when I left?) since I woke up at 8:00 am, and I still didn’t get my ass in gear before noon. At least walking down here got my blood flowing.
When I get tired, it manifests itself physically in my eyes and my legs. The latter get stiff, and my knees pop a lot. I fidget, try to keep them straight, and my feet stop feeling like they belong in my shoes. In my eyes, it’s like someone has hung weights off the back of them and are threatening to pull them into the sea of my skull. It all can be a bit rough when I have to sit still and I’m having to stare at a computer screen, so whatever I can do to wipe those feelings away is good.
But contingency plans aren’t bad either. Low batteries on the MP3 player, no place to plug my laptop in—whichever runs out of juice first will send me home. (And considering I am halfway done now, it will most likely be a perfect time to bug out of here.)
Current Soundtrack: The Streets, Original Pirate Material; Rosita, “Sant Poca’s Dream” 7” EP; Morrissey, "Tomorrow" CD single
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